A
by Xelias
Summary: Alex watches. [alex x alan. much het. mature audiences, please.]


**A/N: **Had to. Just had to. :B

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**A**

The receptionist on the bed knows all that she needs to know: that she will benefit, that no one will believe her if she talks. She has accepted the rare honor of pleasing the president in ways that the girls in the office can only gossip about when she accidentally lets it slip. She takes another sip of a wine that her palate is too unrefined to appreciate, but it's there and it's supposed to relax her, steel her will while her partner very nearly steals it. Her partner, alone with her in the enormous and empty room, but also not alone, so it's as though she's on a stage.

Her partner. Handsome and terribly frightening to her. He rests his naked back against the bedpost at its foot and does not watch her; the mirror, rather, paneling the wall to his left and her right. He smiles into it and surely there must be some aspect, some particle within him that is sincere, and then glances back at her, the woman. She's so beautiful and all dark fibers and the excited pink of liquored-up skin— it's no wonder she sits at that desk all day. Paradigm Corporation must always put its best face forward.

The small talk had been awkward, but was a service to her. _How's work down below? Efficient as usual? Wonder what this would be like lately? _And other such things. Laughter. A disrobing, the dispensing of alcohol, the staring and looking away and the staring. He smiles a lot— constantly, even— to put her at ease. She feels not entirely at ease. She can't help but glance at his arm every so often, wondering just what makes up the man sitting made up and blind and lazily aroused opposite her. Perhaps Mr. President likes the blindfolding. Of course he must, or it wouldn't be there. She, too, peers at the mirror with wonder.

Alex watches.

Alan has been duly instructed to behave himself on this particular undertaking. Alan never disobeys where directed; it's left to his own judgment and devices that he becomes a bother. Alan thinks Alex giving his meticulous orders excites him as much as seeing them unfurl and bear fruit before his eyes.

It's about time that they begin. The woman can lie there for all Alex cares. But Alan follows his instructions with immaculate loyalty and shows her concern, care: a façade so as not to discomfit her too terribly, lulling her with kisses on her shoulders and holding her breast in the warm hand. Alan is not by nature a comforting man. Alan is not.

She's a little ticklish and Alan's lips to her spine make her melt on her belly against the plush bedclothes, and Alex's hand tightens just so on the armrest as Alan fights not to bite her. He does, eventually, at the slope of buttock into thigh, but it's nowhere near as hard as he'd like it to be. She hums; she doesn't scream.

Alan would pull her up onto her knees and have her now, but because Alex desires as truly magnificent a charade as possible, he nudges her over with mechanical fingers so he can trace his tongue around her nipple. She lets out a little sigh and reaches out for him, to his chest, stomach, and then after a time, to the place just below his elbow where flesh vanishes into green metal. Alan would like to punish her for her curiosity and Alex knows this, knows it very well, and takes a drink to wet his throat.

She touches him with her faint fear and that burns him the brightest when he sinks into her and his smirk flickers a little and so peculiarly does a muscle in Alex's thigh. As they begin to move Alex loses sight of Alan's right hand _that hand_ and then it lifts and grasps a pillow and he watches it sharpen and relax and sharpen and relax above her head where she is too distracted to look. She makes the forced-out-of-her sounds of a fucked person, hands flexing in the sheet and the back of his neck where Alex is too distracted to look.

His lips red as always, face white and covering up the flush high on his cheekbones, closed or heavy-lidded eyes censored away from Alex's greedy scrutiny, there is absolutely nothing that betrays Alan's lack of composure but his faltered smile and the tiny jerks and twitches that Miss Lobby misinterprets as natural to a man during sex. One hand slides from the armrest to his lap, and then Alex remembers who he is and returns it to its former place. By the time he looks up again, the woman has wormed out from under Alan and now has him trapped beneath her, soft knees pressed into the mattress and lips looking for his arm again.

Alan pushes her up and warns her not to move and then his hand spins not quite fast enough to kill and only _barely _grazes the vulnerable parts between her thighs. She lets out a high, thin noise. Alex takes sudden note that he has not been breathing. The woman can do nothing but tightly try, squirming, impaled, legs like jelly. Straining from the physical effort of maintaining her position, she appreciates Alan's grip on her backside to support her. He anticipates the involuntary spasms of her body and moves with her, though it really makes no difference to him whether or not she ends up bleeding. In fact, Alex knows, he would prefer it. Alan is so decadently frustrated.

A long, rough, strangled sound rises out of her rosy throat, she bucks once and again and again and _again and sharp and hard_ and Alan's hand dashes away and his grin threatens to split his face and then he's got her, looming over like a spider with his thin limbs and pounding into her breathless body with a smooth and calculated violence and graceful, and the abraded skin of his stomach trickling a ticklish thread of blood as he almost plunges his drill through her navel and Alex almost ends it right there but it's too soon _it's too soon _and Alan has his orders not to stop until she's full of his fruitless fluids he has his orders he is an exercise and a demonstration of Alex's control. Alex watches Alan stiffen, that smile, and put holes in the sheets. He barely makes a sound.

Rest, she dresses, words, Alan bleeds, she remains unaware. She leaves.

The mirror lifts.

Alex goes to Alan before Alan goes to Alex. Alex is vindicated, that half black face pressed against the fabric of his hip and breathing patient breath into his body as the zipper comes down, and Alan is all tongue all greed all wet and it's not long in the least before Alex is undone, done, and puppets Alan down to the sheets.

And there they lie, Alex's considerable body made smaller, pressed tightly, striving for something against Alan's but impossible to say what. As though they were something like lovers, and that had been something like sex.

Alex slumbers between somethings: Alan has his orders.

_fin_


End file.
